Treading Water
by CraazyCresta
Summary: Annie Cresta. District Four. We all know how her story ends, but how did it begin? Annie's POV, story of her life.
1. Chapter 1

It's the day before the reaping. Obviously, everyone's nervous, about tomorrow, about the weeks to come after, about their brothers, sisters, children, distant relatives, but mostly about themselves. The reaping's a serious and frightening occasion. Even in District 4.

District 4 has it a lot better than most, being a Careers' district. The odds are in most people's favour. If you're reaped, someone bigger, better, stronger and more likely to win will volunteer. It's almost certain.

Almost.

Occasionally they don't. Occasionally, the chosen volunteer tribute doesn't step forward, overcome by sudden doubt or fear.

_May the odds be ever in your favour, Annie._

The odds are never in my favour.

* * *

I walk as slow as I dare, surveying the street. The market is in full swing, as it is every day. The overwhelming stench of fresh fish stings at my eyes, but I'm used to it.

I eye up the target. The fruit stall that practically keeps me alive. I see the apples, a crate on the side that's unguarded and oh, so tempting. I know I'll have to be quick. After three years of doing the same thing almost every day, the man at the stall – Mr Dylan Brent, a middle-aged, slightly balding, slightly overweight man – is prepared for me. Sometimes.

I dart through the crowds, my small frame twisting through Peacekeepers and civilians alike. The Peacekeepers aren't as bad as some I've heard of from other districts – some are quite nice, actually.

But Peacekeepers are Peacekeepers, and I will never forgive them for what they've done to me.

I reach the stall, my long, dark hair covering my face from recognition. My fingers, dirty from lack of washing, slip towards the crate. One more second . . .

I grab hold of the apple at the exact same time as someone grabs hold of me. Mr Brent lifts me into the air by my collar, choking me, and twists me round, smirking.

'Thought you could catch me out this time?'

I squirm in his grip, but it's no use. Mr Brent must be twice my size and twice as deadly. A crowd starts to form as he drags me towards the Peacekeepers.

Oh, no. No. Not –

I wrench myself away with lightning speed, tossing myself into the startled, unprepared crowd of shoppers. The element of surprise gets me past at least a hundred people, and out the other end of the square, before Peacekeepers start to open fire.

In some districts, the idea of someone being shot down in the middle of the day for stealing an apple is ridiculous. Absurd. In District 4, justice is not so easily found. Criminals are not so easily forgiven. Luckily, though, I know it's coming. The consequences are known well by me and what remains of my family. I dive down, into a tiny backstreet alleyway, and run as fast as my weak, small legs can carry me. _Get away from here. Get out._

I stumble back into daylight, blinking, and find myself in the Victors' Village. Glancing around, it looks deserted. I sigh in relief, and run my tongue over the blood-red, juicy apple, before biting into it deeply.

I have nothing to do – I'm not meeting Genevieve until midday. I decide to take a walk, to calm my adrenaline rush. Taking another bite, I turn round.

And take a walk straight into Finnick Odair.

* * *

The hard-earned apple is knocked straight out of my hand, and rolls along the floor, now useless with dirt. Finnick Odair's bags, obviously from the market, aren't much luckier, and as they hit the ground the contents tumble out. My immediate instinct is to grab as much as possible and run, but I can't – Finnick's locked his grasp round my wrist.

I look up into the sea-green eyes that the people of Panem know so well, from their intense gaze to their seductive winks. I manage to tear my eyes away from his, and study the rest of him. His natural tan gives his skin a colour I see on many of the fishermen, the ones that spend entire days under the full glare of the sun. His bronze hair is another common trait of the District 4 men, the merchant ones with a little more money than the rest. The rest of us _peasants_ tend to have darker hair, but I'm not sure why. Finnick's face as a whole is perfectly beautiful, so much so that I can't help but feel a slight something stirring. Longing? Jealousy? Admiration?

However, any other emotions are immediately and completely overcome by fear.

'Let me go,' I say quietly, trying to tug my hand away. He smirks and tightens his grip.

'You're the girl at the market. The one that stole from Brent.' Finnick's eyes hold mine once again, and this time I can't look away. They're mysterious, almost scary, as if some hidden secret lies in their depths.

'I said, let me go!' I can't let him take me to the Peacekeepers. Not that it makes much difference anymore. I'm as good as dead, but he doesn't know that.

'Why did you do it?'

I struggle and struggle but Finnick's strength holds me in place. Not hard enough to bruise. Just hard enough to remind me that I am at his mercy.

He starts laughing, his eyes lit up and his mouth open wide. He releases me and steps back, wiping a tear from his eye, and looks at me. 'Listen, little girl,' he chuckles. 'I –'

'I'm _not_ a little girl!' It's true. I haven't been a child for a long time, despite my young age. I'm fourteen and able to keep myself from starving and dying. I can't quite say that I protect my family equally well, but I try. My mother, for want of a better word, is a useless cripple. She can't do anything but eat and sit around. So I provide food for her, seeing as she can't get a decent job. Even if she had the ability, nobody wants to employ my family after –

After my brother. The first person in a long time to make a proper, public stand against the Capitol. I'm proud of him, but I guess I'm the only one. Poor, starving, weak and crawling on our knees, the people of the Rock – the area on the edge of the district, set on the precarious cliffs surrounding the beaches that District 4 is so famous for – can barely survive. We live our everyday lives in the hope that Peacekeepers don't smash down our doors. We walk down the streets, praying we won't get attacked by a knife-wielding, hungry man with the mind to take everything we own.

Of course, we aren't the only ones. The Rock is the only part of District 4 living in poverty, but other districts have similar problems, probably on a much larger scale. However, it doesn't make us any less important. But the thing that we inferiors do most is spend every day hurting, hating, wishing that _someone_ would stand up and do something about it.

My brother, Saffron, decided that the someone was him.

I remember that day. I don't think it'll ever leave my mind. I had just left school, and I was taking the route to the Rock that I always take. Passing through the square, I'd seen the market was in full swing, as it was all-day, every day, and then I'd suddenly noticed Saffron. My brother had stepped up on the reaping stage, something that is never taken down in Four. Like a permanent reminder that the Games is here.

Watching, waiting for your name to be drawn. To be a victim.

Anyway, Saff had stood on the stage, and the action in the market then stopped as curious heads turned to him. I remember his speech word for word, his anger and fury and love all mixed into his voice and face. At the time, he hadn't known I was there.

It would've been better if I hadn't been.

I'd watched him in a state of panic. _What was he doing? Why?_ Questions had buzzed round my brain, all of them silenced by his voice ringing out through the hushed square.

'People of District 4,' he'd announced, stepping forward. Nobody had set foot on the stage since last year's Victory Tour, and the large layer of dust had been kicked up by his feet. I remember clenching my fists at my sides, willing myself to keep calm.

'People of District 4,' he'd repeated, 'My name is Saffron Cresta, and I am from what you would call the Rock. I have a mother, a father, and a sister. We live a life that the Capitol describes as "free".'

I'd paused. Waited for him to continue. Agitated.

'Myself? I wouldn't call it free. I would call it a life of danger and oppression. A life where we live in fear of what the authorities could do to us. A life where the only thing that keeps us in line, is the Hunger Games.'

The Hunger Games. The reaping. The tributes. The tesserae. All words that string together and make us at the mercy of the Capitol.

'The Hunger Games is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks.' I'd recognised that quote, from the dull, annually-repeated speech at the reaping. 'But what are we thanking them for? You, as the people of District 4, you don't understand. These are actual children we are training to fight. Innocent children who are brutally murdered by other innocent children, and put on the television for the Capitol audience! We may have been fooled into thinking the Capitol cares about us, but they don't! We are here to give them seafood. District 10 is here to give them livestock. District 8 is here to make them clothing. Everything is for the Capitol! They don't give a damn about us or our health. They want stuff for themselves, and tributes to sponsor. And you know what I want?'

There had been a long pause as even the Peacekeepers had stopped to hear him.

'I want to fight back!'

* * *

Finnick shakes my arm slightly, his face slowly coming into focus. 'Hello?' he asked nervously. 'Can you hear me?'

I step back, and look to the floor. 'Sorry. Just – flashback.'

'Well, then, I promise I'll leave you alone from now on.' Finnick's biting back a smirk and I know it.

'Anyway . . .' I look down wistfully at the now-useless, dirty apple. Should I run? Or will he just catch me?

He follows my eyes to the apple on the floor, and smiles, picking up the only bag of his that managed to keep its contents inside. His hand reaches inside. I'm backing away. His eyes flit up and meet mine, paralyzing me with the power of his gaze. Almost everyone in District 4 has the same sea-green eyes, but Finnick Odair's was like watching the ocean itself.

Before I turn and run, he steps forward and presses something into my hand. My fingers automatically close around the cold, smooth surface of an apple. I look up into Finnick's eyes, alarmed, and he murmurs, 'For the one you dropped.'

And then I run.


	2. Chapter 2

I look at the apple. Eat it? Don't eat it? It's Finnick's. He gave it to me. So what's the problem?

The problem is my pride.

Soon enough, though, hunger takes over pride and I'm sinking my teeth into the sweet, juicy fruit. I stand at the edge of the cliff, where the Rock lies, before walking to my house. Uneven ground and small stones designed to trip me up do their job, even on a path I know so well. I finish the apple in minutes and toss the core over the side, watching it bounce down the jagged rocks jutting out down the cliff. The sea, its usual green-blue swirl of glitter, seems particularly calm. When I was younger, my brother, Saff, would tell me stories about how the sea reflects my mood. So, maybe a calm ocean means a calm Annie.

I'm wrong. As I reach the state of wreckage that used to be my house, my eyes widen, and my jaw drops.

The door hangs off the hinges. The windows smashed. As I step in, I see the small, cheap table knocked over, and the few possessions we have scattered across the floor. Bloodstains have splattered the wooden floorboards.

The Peacekeepers. I know immediately it's them, the men in white uniforms, who have done this. It's them, who constantly search for ways to punish me.

'Mum?' I scream, my feet flying up the stairs. My useless cripple of a mother, unable to walk without help, is gone. Where? No idea. Why? Because of me.

Her bed is empty. More blood is drying on the bed sheets. I crouch down, elbows on my thighs, clutching my hair.

After what seems like an eternity of me despairing, silently crying, not moving from the position I'm in, I hear footsteps. Light, barefoot. That's how much I can tell. A girl. I feel Genevieve's hand on my back, rubbing the place between my shoulder blades.

I open my eyes and stand up, shaking violently. 'I've lost them all,' I whisper.

Evie takes my hand. 'Annie. Annie, look at me.'

My eyes, I know, register nothing but cold hatred. Saff died mere weeks ago. Now my mother has surely followed him.

'Annie, it's okay, it's okay, don't cry . . .' Evie hugs me tightly but I stay frozen in place.

Tearing away from her, I fly down the stairs two at a time, and come to a stop at the front door – or what remains of it. Everything seems so newly done. The blood still glistening as the light catches it. The Peacekeeper boots' prints in the dirt outside still fresh.

Evie is pulling me backwards. 'Listen to me. If you go after them, you'll get yourself killed. You're no use to anyone dead.'

'Evie!' I shout, frustrated. 'We both know my name's coming from the reaping ball tomorrow!'

'Wait, _what_?!'

There's a long, awkward silence between us, as my words echo back and forth in the space between us.

'It would be simple,' I say, my voice empty. 'Kill the boy immediately. Then kill his family. Then keep his sister alive, so they can kill her on a television show. Capitol logic.'

'You really think they've rigged the reaping for you?'

I see the pain in her eyes, then. The realisation that she may lose her best friend to the clutches of the Hunger Games. I step forward, and briefly hug her.

'Evie, now _you_ listen to _me_.' I pull away. 'Tomorrow. Don't come and see me in the justice building. Don't come and say goodbye to me. It'll just unhinge us both.' She starts to interrupt but I press my finger to her lips, silencing her. 'Please. Let go of any hope that I could win. I won't. I ignored Career training all this time – now I'll pay for it.'

I see Evie change, in this moment. It's hard to describe. But anything childlike about her is gone. She now has to fight for survival alone. She now has no best friend. Already, she's letting me go. And I'm glad.

I touch her cheek. The colour seems to have drained from her normally golden-tan skin, leaving her pale. Her dark hair, short and spiky, seems thinner than usual. Maybe Genevieve is dying. Maybe I'm imagining it.

'I love you, Annie. You're my best friend. The only person I still care about.'

'I love you too, Evie. Do try and fight.'

'Only if you do the same.'

* * *

I stand on the beach, the wind tugging at my hair. The Shoreline – another area of the district, like the Rock, but one that surrounds the coast at the bottom of the cliff – is glowing with light. From inside and outside the houses, light is everywhere, almost overthrowing the natural blood-red rays of the setting sun. The red reflects on the water, giving me a flashback to the blood sparkling on my kitchen floor.

I sit on the sand, and run my fingers through my tangled hair. I have to look pretty for tomorrow. The reaping's at ten. Up and early, then, for my time to shine.

I wonder what makes me so sure I'm going. Of course, it's a possibility, but what makes me so _sure_? I close my eyes, and remember Saff. His speech.

_'I want to fight back!'_

The whole square had gone into uproar after that. Peacekeepers had streamed onto the stage, at least twenty of them, and I'd frozen in my place. Then someone was screaming Saffron's name. Who was it?

Of course, it was me. I'd scrambled to the stage, watched as they knocked him down to his knees, forced my way through the crowd. 'Saffron!' I'd shrieked. '_Saffron_!'

Stupid, really, to think I'd arrive there before the bullet.

As the gunshot had echoed round the square, everything and everyone had stilled. Even the air itself had stopped moving.

But I hadn't stopped running. I'd reached Saff, throwing Peacekeepers aside, spotting his dead body in a pool of blood. I'd screamed. Peacekeepers had grabbed hold of me; I'd been shoved onto my knees as well. The world had blurred behind my tears; the gun had pressed to my temple.

I'd closed my teary eyes. Waited for my death. But something had stopped them. The gun had been pulled away from me, and a disturbingly thrilled voice spoke in my ear.

'Guess you won't be let off as easily, sweetie. We have another punishment for _you_.'

Then they'd tossed me off the stage, and left me mourning my brother's death.

And waiting for the reaping.

* * *

A jolt brings me back to reality. I'm not standing anymore. I'm on my knees, the water lapping softly in front of me, the sun gone. In its place, a huge, glowing moon, situated in the centre of the sky.

I wonder briefly how long I've been like this, but all the heat has left my body, all the energy left my limbs, and not a cell in my body feels safe. I haven't even been reaped and already paranoia is settling on me.

_'We have another punishment for you.'_

I shiver, partly from the cold and partly from the memory. It's obvious that I'm going into the arena. So why don't I just put my fear aside and create a plan?

My reluctance is equally obvious.

I'm scared.

I don't want to die.


	3. Chapter 3

The moon is high in the sky when I stand up, rubbing my sleepy yet sleepless eyes, and I look around. Evie hasn't come. Good.

I can't help but feel a little sad, though. The idea that she's accepted I'm leaving tomorrow just means that I have to accept it too, and I don't want to accept it.

I begin to walk away from the sea, resisting the urge to jump in one last time, and I walk back to my house. I avoid the smashed glass and overturned furniture. And I take a shower.

Before I know it, I'm doing something I'd always swore I'd never do. Walking down the dusty road of the Rock, I see a couple of my neighbours do the same. And then I smile at them, because most of them are safe.

One by one, people join us, walking down to the Training Centre.

As I walk inside, I see they've left it open. Having to register this number of people on the night before the reaping would be too hard, so they leave us to our own devices. Even the trainers have gone.

A lot of people come here on the night before the reaping. We want to know something, anything to take to the arena with us. As I stare around, I feel uncomfortable, knowing my almost-definite fate. _You won't be reaped tomorrow_, I think every time I see a girl. _Not you, none of you. Just me._

Of course, Evie hasn't come. She knows she's safe. I see other familiar faces, though: the boy from the whitebait stall at the market. The guy that was reaped last year before some Career volunteered. The girl that sat behind me at school last year.

And I don't know any of their names.

And they're all twice my size.

Controlling my fear with deep breaths, resisting the urge to run from the room screaming, I start off with something easy and head to the spears.

When I say easy . . . I always figured spears would be light, simple, and deadly. They're heavy, confusing and deadly. Plus, several years of practice is useful.

So if I can't handle a spear – which becomes pretty obvious pretty quickly – then what can I do? Anything involving particular skill, no. Anything involving strength, no.

So I glance around the room and feel more hopeless than ever.

Instead of giving up and going home to my torn up wreck, I force myself through a crowd of girls to see what's going on. And then I almost start laughing, because all these girls are supposedly fearing for their lives, but they still have time to stop and stare at Finnick Odair giving tips on wrestling.

I raise my eyebrows and turn to leave, because I have no hope here, before my eyes rest upon two side-by-side stations. Archery and knife-throwing. Particular skill, yes, but strength? Nope.

I head over, tentative. Darting around all the well-practised, perfect girls, I pick up a knife and toss it.

It falls short of the target by about four metres. And the target's about six metres away.

A chorus of stupid, girly giggling erupts behind me at my failed shot. _Do I care about you?_ I think, supressing anger. _You're safe. I'm gonna die._

I grab another knife roughly, cutting my finger in the process, and toss it. That one sails over the top of the circular target and hits the wall behind. My throw wasn't strong enough so instead of lodging into the wall – like telltale marks around the target show happen often – it falls to the floor uselessly.

More laughter.

I give up and step to the side, letting another girl take the knives and moving onto archery. I pick up the bow, slipping in front of the jostling crowds once again.

Once I finally figure out how to hold it and attach the arrow, thanks to the trainer, I let an arrow fly.

Okay, so I'm no good at archery either.

* * *

Dragging my feet, I make my way back to the beach. I feel like a fail.

All those years of ignoring the Career training will now backfire on me. I realise my ignorance; my stupidity. Here I am, District 4, with the ability to spend years training for something that other people will have no chance to train for, and I declined the offer because I was too – too what? Too proud? Stubborn? Too wrapped up in my beliefs? Probably.

And now I'm almost definitely in the Hunger Games and almost definitely gonna die.

* * *

When morning comes, I haven't slept. I've barely blinked. I spent the remainder of my night staring across the misty water, attempting to accept I'm gonna die.

It's hard to just accept it, though. Even when I've given up, it's another thing altogether to just . . . give up.

I rub my bleary eyes and shake the sand out of my hair. The sunrise is beautiful – too beautiful. With the colours of the pale pink sky bouncing eerily on the water, I stand up, catching my reflection in the gentle waves. I look a mess.

I hurry home, determined to push my emotion away. I see my still-broken house, untouched since yesterday, and catch a small girl watching me. Rhia. I know her – she's my neighbour. Barely twelve years old with a fresh face and unnaturally pale skin for Four.

I give her a thin smile and she returns it unhesitatingly, beaming brightly. Another girl takes her hand and leads her away.

'Wait!' I cry, stepping forwards. 'Where's she going?'

'The Reaping starts in less than an hour. Rhia and I are going early.'

The reaping starts in less than an hour. 'Good luck,' I say, my voice cracking. 'Or I should say, may the odds be ever in your favour!'

They nod silently, and leave. One hour. I walk inside hurriedly.

By the end of my hour, I'm ready. Bathed, clean, sparkling. My hair, I leave alone. Letting it flow past my shoulders. My dress is simple, white, floaty and has been my reaping dress since I was twelve.

I give a small twirl in the smashed mirror. Prettied up for hell.

* * *

I walk down to the main square, and I see the stage. Suddenly overcome with emotion, memories of Saff, I bend my head so nobody can see the unadulterated fear in my eyes.

They prick my finger. They take me to where I must stand, among other fifteen-year-olds. They make me wait three agonizing minutes before starting the reaping.

I force myself to focus on the Capitol seal above the stage, studying each line, each brush of paint, of the sign I know so well. I don't want to look at anyone standing around me.

The worst bit is when Genevieve files in beside me, taking my hand and squeezing it tightly. I pull away quickly. I can tell she's hurt without even looking at her.

The usual bitter salty taste is in the air as the mayor of Four takes to the stage. He leisurely sidles up to the podium, his overweight body obviously proving him inflexible and slow-moving. Behind him are four chairs, one empty – the mayor's chair – and then two for Finnick Odair and Mags Nero, the mentors, and finally a chair that holds Odette Karva, District Four's escort.

The mayor starts to read. His eyes show excitement, his voice full of more energy than his walk. He, like some in Four, loves the Games almost as much as the Capitol. I guess – had I grown up differently – so would I.

The speech starts. As usual, I don't listen. I'm itching to take hold of Evie's hand like she took mine but I know I can't, and that hurts more than anything. Focus. _Focus_. The sound of a wave breaking against a rock hits my ears and the constant whimper from the girl in front of me makes me want to strangle her. But I don't. Of course I don't.

'It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks,' the mayor says, his previously cheerful voice starting to droop with the amount he has to say. He then reads off a list of the past victors. For a Career district, we haven't had many. Seventeen. Eleven are still alive. At that moment, in the crowd, the remaining eleven all stand and take a bow, and onstage Finnick Odair and Mags Nero do the same.

Odette Karva strides to the front in ridiculous heels, instantly drawing the audience's attention from the victors. Automatically she looks out of place, from her blue wig to her blue dress to her blue shoes and her blue lipstick. From a distance, she looks like even her skin is blue. Yes, District 4 may be on the seashore, but I've never seen any sort of water that shade of bright, turquoise _blue_. It's hideous.

Odette Karva smiles round at us all with a beam that is so charged with enthusiasm, I'm surprised she isn't actually bouncing round the stage.

'Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be _ever_ in your favour!' Odette Karva's melodic, high voice trills through the microphone and echoes round the square. Some applaud. A couple of Careers cheer. 'It's so lovely to see all you young boys and girls, positively brimming with excitement! I have to say – today feels like a good year for District Four. I can just feel it in my bones!'

I smile tersely at that. She says that every year.

At that moment, Evie's hand slips in mine again, and I don't pull away. _I need_ _you_, I think. _I need you right now more than ever before._

I look at the names in the glass ball and wonder vaguely about how they rig the reaping. Does Odette pull out a random name, then call out mine instead? Or does every single slip have my name on? Or does she know _which_ one to pick? She's walking over to the ball. Dipping her hand inside and twirling it round for dramatic effect. Selecting a supposedly random slip and strutting back to the microphone. Opening it.

'Annie Cresta!'


	4. Chapter 4

The funny thing is, I thought I was prepared. But nothing really prepares you for something like this.

I walk to the front slowly, yanking my hand from Evie. Swallowing tears. Luckily I prepared myself enough to handle tears.

'Come on, darling, up you come.' Odette Karva's hand rests on my back as she pulls me gently but firmly to the middle of the stage. I look at Mags, and she smiles comfortingly. I look at Finnick, and he recognises me. Yesterday. I'm the girl with the apple.

From the look on his face, he's assuming that I've been rigged-reaped for stealing an apple. It is a fair point to assume for someone who doesn't know the truth – I _was_ almost shot down for it, wasn't I?

Nobody volunteers for me.

When I get to the front, I look around. I catch Evie's eye and she smiles unhappily at me. Odette says something to me and I brush her off.

She shakes my shoulder. 'Annie? Can you hear me?'

'What?'

A few people in the audience laugh, most of them teenage girls who are _so_ relieved that they weren't reaped. I look at Odette expectantly, waiting for her to repeat herself.

'I said, are you excited, Annie?' she says impatiently.

I glare at her. 'Oh, yes,' I reply with sarcastic eagerness. 'I'm thrilled. Nothing like a twenty-three out of twenty-four chance of death to keep your spirits high!'

A few more people laugh. I hear laughter from behind and look round to see a telltale grin lingering of the faces of the mentors.

I know why I'm doing this. I'm scared. Scared out of my mind so my only defence is hiding it under bitterness.

Odette Karva shrugs off my rudeness with a flawless act of improvisation and turns to the audience again. Her next words wipe the smiles off almost every boy in front of me.

'And now, to pick a young man!' She hops over to the other glass ball, the one with boys' names, and pulls out a slip fairly quickly. Everyone, including me, is holding their breath.

'Caddis Kidd!' she calls out triumphantly, throwing her hand up in the air and waving the slip of paper around. 'Caddis Kidd, if you could come?'

A young boy, twelve years old, stumbles forward. His eyes show pure terror. Tears are already pouring steadily down his chubby cheeks. This is the look of a boy that gets three meals a day, probably more, who would never have to go to work and who never signed up for tesserae. This is a merchant kid; he won't survive the bloodbath, and he's not a Career. Caddis Kidd is just a kid. This is an innocent twelve-year-old boy. This is one entry in thousands.

Two people call out at the same time. The first, the boy's mother, flying forwards and crying out, 'No! Caddis! _No_!' Her voice is squeaky and hysterical with fear.

The second one that yells at the same time is a young man from the reaping crowd.

'I volunteer as tribute!'

First glance says he's not related to Caddis Kidd. Second glance says he's never seen him before. Because my district partner is a Career.

* * *

Any small, tiny, flickering flame of a hope that I ever had of winning is extinguished at this moment. It's one thing having a Career from another district against you. It's a completely different thing when they're from home. He'll learn my weaknesses and my strengths, he'll learn everything about me, and if he's a Career, then that means he will be able to find and kill me.

He strides up to the stage, actually pushing the other guy behind him. Caddis Kidd staggers back, pauses a moment, then runs to his mom and buries himself in her arms. The other boy, who must be sixteen at the least, swaggers up confidently and gives a dazzling smile to the country of Panem.

Odette Karva grasps his elbow and steers him to the centre, next to me but on the other side of the microphone. He then smiles at me, less dazzling and more reassuring.

I look away from him uncomfortably and instead my eyes rest on Odette's sapphire-encrusted lips, as she asks, 'And what is your name?'

'Logan Lute.' He winks at her and I'm sure the woman actually blushes under her makeup.

'Logan,' she gushes, 'such a brave boy. I'll guess that you're here for the glory? The honour?'

He smirks. 'The women, more likely.'

I laugh quietly. Wow. It's only the reaping and we've both already decided what our personalities are.

Logan Lute and I shake hands. I look at him again, but this time he doesn't smile – he just looks amused.

* * *

When we're taken to the justice building, I'm not expecting any visitors. Running my fingers along the lush velvet sofa, I smile slightly. If I'm going to die, at least the days beforehand will be in luxury.

The wooden door creaks open, and light floods the room. I turn round and find Genevieve staring at me, half-apologetic and half-afraid. Tears well up in her eyes.

'Evie, no, don't –' I run forward and hug her tightly before I see her cry, because if she cries, then so will I.

Crying isn't an option anymore; it's a kill or be killed situation, and the weak die first.

_The weak die first._

I repeat this phrase in my mind and whisper it once to myself as I draw away from Genevieve. Her red, puffy eyes tell me everything but I throw my emotions out of the window. Holding her shoulders tightly, I bend down a bit, making myself level with my small friend.

'You'll survive. Go to the market every day, take as much as you can, stock up. Try and find a friend on the Rock – I know Rhia and her sister are in our situation. If Logan Lute comes back, that means parcel day. You're fifteen and you only have three more reapings to go to. Sign up for tesserae if you must. Make sure you don't die.'

All she has time to do is nod before I hug her again, tightly. 'You shouldn't have come,' I mutter into her ear.

'I – I had to, Annie.'

'I'm glad you did.'

We allow each other one more small, sad smile, before Peacekeepers open the door and beckon her out. A little wave. Tapping footsteps. And Evie's gone.

I sit back down, watching the dim, purple light dance on the wall as sunlight strains to reach beyond the curtains. Will anyone else come? I don't know.

In the end, nobody else does. I stand up after my allotted time and walk out, caged by Peacekeepers. Hurrying down the corridor, out of the justice building and to the train quickly. Apparently, every second counts when you want to tie up your shoelace and they continue forcing you forward. Poor Logan nearly fell over when he stepped on it.

Poor Logan. Ha.

When I board the train, though, I'm met with the strangest feelings. First, adoration. Then disgust. Then a mixture of the two.

Because in front of me is the most beautiful room I've ever seen. Rows upon rows of crystal and glitter and swirling colours engulf me, drowning me in a sensation I've never felt before – complete awe. Everything shines. Everything hides a rainbow inside.

But as soon as I take my first breath, my nose wrinkles in disgust. The air itself is sweet, perfumed, not containing the salty taste that I've grown up knowing. I'm almost choking. This feels wrong.

Logan chooses this moment to squeeze past me and also gaze around in wonder, which stops my inward gagging and snaps me back to reality.


	5. Chapter 5

**APOLOGIES FOR THE LATE UPDATE. I have writer's block :( **

**Anyway...enjoy!**

* * *

I sit on one of the train's plush sofas, supposedly relaxed, staring out of the window. It still seems unreal – that I'm here, that I'm a tribute, that I'm travelling to my death. I'm not ready. If only I had trained. But I'm not a Career and I'm going to have to face the consequences, whatever they may be. _Stay strong. You're a tribute. Stay strong._ The words are in my head, yet it's Genevieve's voice I hear, which makes me only ache for her and home more. I tap my foot nervously, biting at my already-jagged nails, until a shadow falls over me.

'It's a bad habit, you know.' I jump slightly and look up to see Logan Lute smiling down at me, dark brown hair gelled back stylishly from the reaping.

'What's a bad habit?' I ask, frowning.

'Biting your fingernails.' He sits down beside me, and sighs, running his fingers across his smooth hair. 'I hate this.'

'What, the Hunger Games?'

'No, the hair gel.'

I sigh, and my eyes flick to the window again. So this is a Career. Shallow, stupid, no idea what's coming. And yet it's funny, because despite his stupid assumptions and his carefree nature, this boy has trained his entire life to kill me and twenty-two others – and kill me he will. I can almost guarantee it. For Careers, killing your district partner is like commanding the ultimate power, the bloodthirsty, relentless nature to kill. It lies in the ability to kill someone from home. Personally, I can't see what power or respect anyone could get from that. But they obviously do. Somehow.

Logan coughs awkwardly and in the window reflection I see him. The slightly distorted image trembles on the glass as the train moves, and I find myself wishing that I really could trap Logan Lute in the glass, imprisoned there, so I can have a bigger shot at winning. I blink, and then suddenly it isn't Logan's face I see watching me, but President Snow's face, something I have only ever seen before on television. Snow is smiling at me – no, he's leering, his cold eyes boring into mine, his surgically altered, puffy lips whispering my name like a death threat . . .

'Annie, Annie, Annie . . .'

'Annie, Annie, _Annie_!' Logan's voice springs from nowhere. I blink and Snow is gone, and in his place the fairly familiar face of my district partner. I swallow.

'Yes?' I ask coldly, trying to ignore the constant trembling in my hands.

'Nothing,' he replies coolly. 'You just looked a little . . . zoned out.'

I smile slightly, even though there is absolutely nothing to be smiling about. 'Don't worry, I'm not crazy . . . yet.' When Logan offers his hand to shake, I take it, somewhat reluctant but determined to stay on this guy's good side. 'Annie Cresta. I'm from the Rock.'

'The Rock, huh? I'm from the Shoreline. Logan Lute.'

I nod politely before leaning back, relaxing finally against the soft sofa cushions. 'Inventive names, aren't they? Rock, Shoreline . . .'

Logan laughs. 'I can tell you're nervous when you start talking about generally irrelevant and _pointless_ stuff. We have a Hunger Games to survive. You can rethink the names of our District areas when you get back.' He coughs, and smiles slightly. '_If_ you get back. Remember, we both want to survive, here.'

'You can survive, I gave up as soon as – as I was reaped.' Actually, I gave up a whole lot earlier than that, but Logan doesn't need to know the details.

He raises his eyebrows. 'I'd encourage you to stay strong and all that stuff . . . but is there any point in pretending to care about one another? One, if not both of us, will be dead in weeks.'

I ponder this. 'Logan Lute,' I start after a moment's silence, 'if you and I were the last two people in the arena alive, would you kill me?'

He stays quiet, lowering his eyes from mine. Confirming everything I already suspected.

The silence stretches, before I realise that I'm biting my fingernails again. Logan laughs quietly when he sees the expression on my face.

'What?' I demand, somewhat defensive. 'I'll do what I want to my nails.'

'Don't you worry, I won't stop you.' He stops laughing, but the half-smile lingers on his lips, turning them up at the corners. I stare at him.

'I'd like to see you try,' I reply icily.

My attempt at being cold, cruel and intimidating goes about as far as it would if I were stuck in cement.

Logan laughs. 'Ouch,' he chuckles. 'Guess I'll be needing to watch my back from now on.'

He runs his hand over his shiny hair again. Sitting next to him, I take the silence to my advantage and size myself up to him. He's sixteen or seventeen, I'm fifteen. He volunteered, I was reaped, which makes him automatically better with sponsors. He's tall, I'm small. That's both an advantage and a disadvantage. He's strong, muscled, I'm tiny, weak, thin. He's handsome . . . I can't even begin to think how I measure up to him in _that_ respect.

In short, Logan Lute has everything a Career needs. Annie Cresta has nothing.

At this moment, Finnick Odair chooses to walk in. I look up as the door closes with a quiet click and once again find myself staring at him, his face, his hair, his eyes. Pretty much the same as yesterday, save his messy hair being combed back with gel. He gives Logan and I a dazzling, 1000 Watt smile, and falls down into the sofa opposite us, leaning back lazily.

'Nice,' he says, a little half-hearted as he surveys us. 'Logan Lute. Annie Cresta.' He stretches out the words and rolls the _r_ in Cresta. I shiver.

Neither of us reply, so Finnick leans forward and takes out our school files. He flicks through mine first. 'Annie Cresta, fifteen years old. No recorded Career training, skills in swimming and ropes.' He sighs. 'This may be difficult.'

'In other words, _give up now_?'

'In other words, this guy knows what he's doing, and yet you haven't a clue.' Finnick looks round, slightly frustrated, and his eyes rest on Logan. 'Did nobody _really_ volunteer for her?'

Logan laughs harshly. 'Nope. The whole square was completely silent. You could hear the sea.' He nudges me playfully with a grin, but I honestly can't see what's worth grinning in what he said. In fact, it just makes tears prick at the back of my throat. It makes me think, too: nobody did volunteer for me. I hadn't given it much thought before, I'd just accepted my fate. But why _did_ nobody volunteer?

Finnick shrugs slightly. 'District Four girls, all wimps. The lot of them. Except you, my dear,' he adds to Mags, who chooses that moment to glide into the room. Her beautiful reaping dress is silver, simple but stunning. She just gives Finnick a toothless grin and pokes his shoulder, sitting down slowly beside him in the awkward way that the elderly do. He offers his arm. She bats him away irritably.

I stifle a giggle at the look on Finnick's face, but regain composure enough to snap, 'Who said I was a wimp?'

'I'd rather underestimate you, Annie Cresta, than expect you out of the arena alive just so you can die.' Finnick's words bite painfully, but I force my tears back again and jut my chin out. 'I watch little girls like you die every year, and it's not easy. But this boy here, this Logan, he has a chance – and a damn good one at it.' He holds up Logan's file.

Logan has stayed pretty quiet through this, but he perks up slightly at the sound of his name.

'Logan Lute,' Finnick starts, his eyes flitting up to glance at him before returning to reading. 'You're sixteen years old, with excellent training grades, and skills in archery and knives.' His previously discouraged expression cracks into a grin. 'Now _that's_ a tribute worth betting on.'

This is not good. Finnick, my mentor, my only hope of survival in the Games, has already ruled me out. _Not good. _But before I can give a biting response, someone else enters.

Odette Karva, still dressed in that ridiculous, frilly blue dress, saunters in. Mags makes room on the sofa for her but then it's not necessary, for she sits immediately on Finnick's lap. She barely notices us, her _tributes_, for she immediately starts kissing his neck. The room's silent for a moment, until Mags stands up, shaking her head, and leaves. I look over to Finnick, and see his face flush. Embarrassed yet pleased.

Embarrassed yet pleased.

Feeling highly awkward, I glance over at Logan, who's watching the now-kissing couple with wide, innocent eyes, looking a whole lot younger than the flirtatious boy I met on the reaping stage. Tapping my fingers on my leg, my eyes flicker away from Logan and I focus on Odette and Finnick again until he eventually slides her off his lap. A couple of quick, murmured words exchange between them, and their attention is back on us.

'So,' Finnick says awkwardly, breaking the silence. 'Where were we?'

I stay quiet, half-shrugging, with my eyes locked on Odette's hand. I wasn't dreaming imagining it – her skin really is tinted blue, all horrid and scaled like a fish. She's taken the whole _escort for the fishing district_ thing a little too seriously. But her disgusting, blue, scaled hand is currently crawling up Finnick's leg like a beetle.

I can imagine Odette being a bug. She's certainly repulsive enough . . . no offence to the bug.

Blushed cheeks, girly smile, glancing eyes, anyone can guess why they were both late. But it's my emotions that catch me off guard – a mix of loathing and jealousy. Jealousy? Yup, I said it. I must be going crazy.

I catch Logan's eye, and he looks so desperately awkward that I begin to laugh. He follows quickly, and a giggle soon turns into almost hysterical, full on laughter, complete with tears and all. Why are we laughing? Because Odette looks ridiculous. Because Finnick is a slut. Because nothing has changed and we are still heading towards our deaths.

But it's funny, and I can imagine that not much in my life from now on will be funny, so I hold onto every laugh and treasure it like it's my last.

It might be.


End file.
